


The Dead of Night

by flowersforgraves



Series: BTHB [17]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Background Julian Bashir/Elim Garak, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Blindfolds, Captivity, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 23:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18375947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersforgraves/pseuds/flowersforgraves
Summary: The power hasn't gone out.





	The Dead of Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gardenvarietyunique](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardenvarietyunique/gifts).



> prompt from gardenvarietyunique: blindfolded + Garak/Bashir
> 
> (card [here](https://flowersforgraves.tumblr.com/post/177921515881/); current list of claimed and filled prompts [here](https://flowersforgraves.tumblr.com/post/183996938791/))

It’s very, very dark.

This is, of course, just about what he’d expected. He blinks a few times, trying to clear the dizziness from being knocked unconscious, but his vision still doesn’t return. 

He refocusses, using his other senses to figure it out. The low hum around him tells him that there is still power to the station, despite his inability to see anything. Garak shifts, testing his range of motion, and finds his hands are secured behind his back. His feet, however, are free, neither tied together nor to the chair he’s sitting in.

It takes a couple tries before he manages to stand up. He’s fairly confident that he is alone in the room; if anyone was here they couldn’t have managed to remain silent and still for this long. _Unless,_ he thinks, _it’s Odo. A chair? A table? A vent grate?_ But it’s unlikely at best that the Constable would be party to a Dominion operation, especially one run by the so-called Cardassian government.

He shakes himself out of his thoughts, and carefully makes his way in one direction, straight, until he brushes against something solid. He can press his leg, hip to boot, against the wall -- it must be a wall, what else can it be if he can feel it against his whole side? -- and slowly, painstakingly, makes his way around the room. Cataloguing the shape of the room is something to put his mind at ease while he waits, even though all his training is telling him there must be something dangerous in here, some trap waiting to be sprung.

When the door clicks and whirs, ready to open, Garak drops down. He estimates he’s in position for the chair to provide some meagre shielding from the door, but the blindfold is a much bigger hindrance than the chair is an advantage.

The voice that echoes into the room is absolutely not the voice Garak expects. It’s a voice more strongly associated with soup and bread and that awful Starfleet uniform, a voice that immediately makes him start to get defensive about his favorite novels, a voice that does not belong in a combat zone.

“Garak?” Julian asks. “Is -- are you able to walk?”

Garak doesn’t stand up. He’s too cynical to assume everything is fine, has had enough experience on both ends of the situation to harbor a healthy suspicion. “I’m fine,” he says. His voice is raspy with dehydration and disuse, and he’s sure Julian will fuss over him at some point later, but he plays it up just in case Julian is under duress, and coughs for good measure.

Footsteps, approaching from the door. A slight jog in direction -- _the chair_ , he thinks with a bit of satisfaction -- and then Julian is pulling the blindfold from his eyes and sawing at the ties around his wrists. Garak shuts his eyes against the sudden light, but sneaks a glance around the room just in case. Julian is, by all appearances, alone. He’s certainly the only other person in this room, and there is nothing to indicate he has been followed here.

Rubbing feeling back into his hands, he looks at Julian. “Let’s go, dear doctor.”


End file.
